Blue
by neat-o-nitori
Summary: Arthur Kirkland has witnessed something exceedingly dangerous. He's watched a murder play out in the midst of his unassuming Victorian London and the murderer, a handsome, angelic-looking American man, has spotted him doing it. USUK/UKUS


**A/N: you don't understand how long I've been trying to write this. I get the worse writer's block Q ^ Q but hERE IT IS. FINALLY. It's not going to be historically accurate, I'm sorry. I hope you like it regardles ;v;? if you comment, I just might love you**

* * *

_(Pray)__  
__'Til I go blind__  
__(Pray)__  
__'Cause nobody ever survives__  
__Prayin' to stay in her arms just until I can die a little longer__  
__Saviors and saints, devils and heathens alike__  
__She'll eat you alive_

_-Rev 22:20, Puscifer_

* * *

_1: Painting a Murder_

Arthur Kirkland had never seen someone so lovely do something so downright horrifying.

The man before him was without a doubt an angel: refined, pristine features, hair a gold Arthur had never encountered, someone so dreadfully beautiful Arthur could only think to blame his good looks on the alcohol he'd just downed. He looked fresh off a canvas, still dripping with color.

Kirkland staggered forward, maybe to reach out, maybe to get a better look? He wasn't sure what he would do if his hand met the other's face, but he was curious to see if the man felt as warm as he looked. He looked like he was burning.

His radiance alone was nearly enough to distract from the blade, poised and ready in his hand. Arthur watched in a stupefied horror as it met repeatedly with a woman's exposed chest, slicing into the delicate skin with hostile determination.

He stabbed with increasing fury, eyes narrowed and smoldering with an emotion Arthur couldn't quite pin. The scene warped in his vision, red staining the walls, red staining the angel's face. Red was all he could see and the last thing he saw.

He failed to notice two blues locked on him as the corpse slid to the floor.

* * *

He awoke to grey. Grey as things had always been and grey as they'd perhaps always be. The grey was screaming at him and Arthur rubbed furiously at his temples. He was hung-over for the umpteenth time. "To no bloody surprise," he muttered, rising shakily to his feet.

He could feel a headache brewing.

"Why, this ought to be a new low for you, Mr. Kirkland." A voice—_too fucking loud—_rang out, luring him back to reality. He whipped around to meet it, straining his eyes to make out the familiar face.

Germanic features, steel grey blue—damnit all to Hell, he hated the color by now—eyes set under furrowed brows, thin lips tugged down in obvious concern.

"Ludwig." He returned.

"For a man of your profession, you'd think you'd have seen enough drunks to keep off the liquor yourself." Ludwig mused, soaking in the sight before him. A very unkempt version of the young man he knew. Green eyes aged far too much in comparison to his young, disheveled appearance. "You'll drink yourself to an early death, you know."

"Bugger off." Arthur began to pat himself clean, only to come to an abrupt halt as last night crept in on him, grabbing him from behind and filling his head up with gruesome images of a bloodied woman, her lifeless corpse held up and carved into in a wild, panicked frenzy.

He turned hesitantly, blinking owlishly at the empty alley.

There was no woman.

He kept watching, as if she may appear if he looked hard enough. Her or…

Or the angel. The beautiful, awful thing with the blonde hair and the porcelain skin.

Neither showed.

"Are you quite alright, Mr. Kirkland?"

Arthur cleared his throat, once again brought out of his trance. "Y-Yes, yes. Perfect. Now if you'll excuse me, Ludwig, I have a bar to open." He puffed out his chest, side-stepping the German.

He earned a sigh. "Just keep care of yourself, alright? It's one thing to drink and another to pass out…_here._" Ludwig motioned around himself, as if the alley spoke for itself.

"I assure you I'm _just fine_."

* * *

He'd come to realize that he was anything _but fine_, come nighttime.

He'd slaved away for the past ten or so hours, and his back ached something miserable. Be it from bending over constantly or from the night spent on the ground, he couldn't be certain.

He ran a damp cloth dully over the mug in his hand, wiping small circles just to pass the time. The customers (what little of them hadn't filed out by this hour) were content, sipping idly, nagging about their spouses, and eyeing Elizaveta from the corner of their eyes.

Arthur had hired her recently, and she did her job rather efficiently for what little he could afford to pay her. She cleaned, tended to tables, and provided adequate eye candy for the men coming in. Just enough to keep them pleasant. Kirkland figured if they were plenty busy ogling her, they'd be far less concerned with picking up fights with him and engaging him in chatter he'd rather stay out of.

No one would dare accuse him of being social. He sighed, continuing to clean.

He'd gotten drunk before, it was hardly a secret. Helped himself many times to some of the ale he served, right after he'd locked up. He'd tried to keep some form of moderation intact, but it had grown rather hard lately. And with each and every passing day, the urge to drink his life away had grown exceedingly more appealing. The bitter drink had grown sweet on his tongue.

He hadn't had an experience like he had that night, though, and it was beginning to gnaw at him. He'd found himself forgetting an awful lot, and waking up in odd places, but never had it caused him to have such a disturbing dream. He'd considered it to be real for a moment, but it was idiotic to think such a thing might've happened. He'd looked hard and there hadn't been a body. There hadn't been blood either. It was a sick, twisted dream and he was equal parts sick and twisted for having dreamt it up. Yet still it gnawed away.

He thought to the man. The angel. Whatever it had been that had invaded his dreams. He'd found him stunning. More so than any of the lasses his late parents had tried introducing him to. _But that_… The thought of such an unnatural attraction repulsed him.

His eyes trailed over to Elizaveta. To her chest, specifically. He stared intently for a moment or so before ripping his eyes away and averting them back down to the mug in hand. Nothing. He felt absolutely nothing.

He growled under his breath.

Perhaps he was simply just too tired to function. Perhaps he was indeed sick.

He sighed, eyes trailing up to the pub door, watching with mild interest as it swung open and a man waltzed in.

_Here I thought I could nearly close._

Kirkland glared daggers down at the cup, scrubbing harsher.

He was perhaps too absorbed in his cleaning to notice the man slip onto one of the stools in front of him and it wasn't until the stranger opened his mouth that he was brought back to focus.

"Hello." The accent was crisp, foreign, and drawn out coolly. It was more than enough to grab his attention.

His breath hitched at the sound and he coughed, eyes trailing up curiously. "Ah, he—"

His greeting died on his lips.

The angelic-looking man from his dreams sat there in the flesh, an innocent smile playing on his lips, a pair of spectacles falling ever-so-slightly down the bridge of his nose and a stray strand of hair sticking up defiantly. He rested his cheek on his palm, meeting Kirkland's green eyes with two, bright eyes of his own.

They were the deepest, most intense shade of blue Arthur had ever seen; blue enough he could swear they melted away all the grey.


End file.
